Travel Reference
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Termite mounds and tall, pale pink orchids rise from the forest floor. In the thick un-
derbrush, long vines lie among the rotting leaves, coiled like snakes, ignoring the girls and
springing up to slash my legs and trip me. I become totally absorbed in watching my feet.
Whenever I fall, all five girls turn and stare in disbelief, exclaiming
“Sori!”
and then seeing
that I'm not hurt, dissolve into giggles.
My guides haven't brought any drinking water for themselves. Perhaps they assumed that
mylittlecanteenwouldholdenoughforsix,forsoonafterweleaveMemnahop,Sipinbegins
to complain to me in Pidgin that they're thirsty.
IrememberNigel'sadvice:“Don'tshortchangeyourselfonwater.Believeme,yourguides
can function on little or no water—they're used to it—but if you run out of water, you won't
make it to Bimin.” After what happened to my Oreos, I'm afraid to risk the girls' draining
my canteen. So I don't offer to share. Still, I feel guilty. How could my guides have guessed
I would want the canteen all to myself? Probably they had no way of imagining how much
fluidabig,sweatingAmericanwouldneed.Likewise,Ifear,theyprobablyhavenoideahow
firm a foothold I'm going to need to bear my weight in the dangerous place.
Afterwe'vewalkedsteadily uphillforanhour,wereachthespotwherethemountainrises
abruptlybeforeus,analmostverticalwalloffoliage.Thesightofitmakesmyheartracewith
fear.
“Mi kisim wind fustaim”
(I'llrestawhile),Iannounce,andsitdownonafallenlog.Ana,
thesmallestandmostebullientofthefive,startstoscalethemountain,graspingexposedtree
roots and outcroppings of rock, gliding from handhold to handhold with the lightness of a
butterfly, but Sipin calls her back. With a wry smile, Ana sits down and speaks animatedly in
her soprano voice, while the others laugh.
I've come to the wrong place, I think, looking up at the cliff face. I don't belong here. I
should have gone to the steppes of Tibet, to those vast, open solitudes where lamas march
for days and nights without stopping, their minds drawn inward, their gaze fixed far off into
space, their hands absently clutching their magic daggers, their steps springy and rhythmic.
Since I've rarely been present in my body for longer than a few minutes at a time, what the
heck am I doing at the base of this cliff?
To quiet my heart, I look away from the cliff into the woods we've come from, thinking of
last night's dream and following it like a winding forest path, following it into memories of
an enchanted childhood.
I'm four years old, standing in the middle of an intersection in Fukuoka, Japan. Buses and
bicycles rush past. I don't know where I am, but I'm not afraid, just tired and thirsty and
ready to be found. Confident it will work, I sit down on the curb, my chin in my hands, and
sob. I can't tell if I'm managing real tears or if my cheeks are just sweaty—it's one of those
hot,muggydayswhenyoucanseesteamrisingfromthepavement—butanyway,twomenin
business suits stop to ask what's the matter. In minutes, I'm sitting atop a police station desk,
